Aurora
by Lovell
Summary: Portkeyed to a savage northland wilderness, Draco and Harry must survive. Draco becomes inexorably bound to the wild and to Harry, but eventually a choice must be made. Slash.
1. Infancy

**Disclaimer:** J.K. Rowling owns Harry Potter. I own myself, and a computer.  
  
**Summary:** Portkeyed to a savage northland wilderness, Draco and Harry must survive. Draco becomes inexorably bound to the wild and to Harry. Slash.  
  
**Author's Note:** This is a quiet sort of story. I very much hope you like it. Please constructively criticize it – I would like to improve my writing more than anything.

* * *

_"The land itself was a desolation, lifeless, without movement, so lone and cold that the spirit of it was not even that of sadness. There was a hint in it of laughter, but of a laughter more terrible than any sadness – a laughter that was mirthless as the smile of the Sphinx, a laughter cold as the frost and partaking of the grimness of infallibility. It was the masterful and incommunicable wisdom of eternity laughing at the futility of life and the effort of life. It was the Wild, the savage, frozen-hearted Northland Wild." _

_– Jack London, White Fang_

**Aurora**  
  
Chapter One: Infancy  


The air crackled like tearing paper.  
  
Draco stared down Harry Potter in the uncharacteristically dry September heat. The feel of the desiccation on his skin was liberating. His hand cut through the air; everything felt sharper. Where humidity clings and muffles intensity, dryness releases.  
  
Parched wand wood stung his neck where it rested. The wizard on the other end was tight, controlled, serene even. He hovered on his broom, higher than Draco, watching him with furious patience.  
  
"Sirius Black was more talented and more noble than you will ever be." Harry's tone was rich and angry and final. Draco's eyes slit. He believed him.  
  
The desolation of the day was made noticeable by the morning sky, so grey and even like a solid sheet of steel stretched industrially over the hills and turning the grass a sickly green.  
  
Harry's wand was still there, still cold, still yielding the effect of a thousand tiny splinters piercing his ivory skin. He smiled crookedly. Cock it up to naiveté; any other wizard in his position would realize that Potter had no intention of engaging in word play, nor was he of the mind to grant Draco a mercy sneer.  
  
"Noble." Draco tilted his head contemplatively. "Yes. How did he die? Oh, right. He fell through a curtain. How very noble indeed."  
  
Draco thought that no silence had ever been so motionless.  
  
"That's an awfully long-winded death wish."  
  
A sharp breath of air escaped Draco's lips. "Could you?"  
  
The air hissed with static and Harry inched forward on his broom. Draco moved back. The dark glint in Harry's eyes – he'd seen that in only one beast before. It thrust him into the rude reality of the situation. They hovered miles above any other soul, one wand between them. Draco's had fallen from the sky along with any hope of victory.  
  
And Harry was so far beyond rage.  
  
"Potter..." Draco whispered, frightened to break the tension.  
  
"Avada –"  
  
Draco's eyes grew large. He couldn't. "You can't," he mouthed. Harry's eyes widened and something more human took up residence among the flecks of emerald. Draco choked out a laugh. "No. You could never."  
  
Provoked hatred. At that moment, a streak of gold jetted past their eyes and floated some fifty feet below them. Quidditch. Seconds before, Draco thought his life would end. But no, it was only a game.  
  
Draco dived his broom towards the snitch, the air crackling through his hair and ears, a loud vortex that pushed the rest of the world far away. Harry was quick on his heel, but Draco was faster; it seemed as if he might actually grasp it.  
  
He was still in a hard dive when he felt a jerk on his boots. A swift rearing of his head confirmed the fact that Harry had grabbed him and was slowing him down. But it was too late for the Gryffindor seeker: Draco's hand found the snitch.  
  
The lurching sensation that followed was not what was typically defined as a feeling of success. The grey clouds fell away from him and one word melded instantly with the sudden sickness of understanding. _Portkey._  
  
Terrified and violently cold, Draco let himself fall.  
  
- - -  
  
Draco thought blindness would be darker. He though blindness was an absence of light, a complete loss of sense. But this blindness was searing and bright and so very, very frozen.  
  
His eyes swam through the sea of white until it met with another form, a blotch of gold and ruby. He wiped tears, lured from his eyes by the cold, away from his face and wrapped his robe more tightly around his shoulders. It was snow, he realized when the nausea and disorientation of the portkey had vanished. It was crystalline, soft, bitter snow that blanketed the world as far as he could see.  
  
The snitch was still in his hand, but the magic was lost from it. Then the more terrible awareness: they did not have their brooms. There was no return ticket, no way of getting back to Hogwarts.  
  
Harry's quick intake of breath alerted Draco to his wakefulness. Harry's head was thrust upward to the sky, his eyes dark and scrutinizing the horizon as if he could still see the seam in the atmosphere they fell out of. His expression was panicked, and as soon as he noticed Draco he turned his frightened eyes on him.  
  
"What did you do, Malfoy?" There was a sharpness in his voice, an edge to it of thinly-veiled horror.  
  
Draco's voice shook with fear and the cold. "I d-don't know. I – nothing. I didn't do anything."  
  
Their silence was magnified by the barrenness of the landscape and the whistled howl of the wind as it whipped around them. Draco watched Harry, watched his black hair grow white with snow. He watched as Harry's eyes dropped, sullen, to the blank ground, watched as his shoulders trembled then slowly fell, watched him wrap his cloak delicately around them and sat there, quiet, for endless moments.  
  
As to what Draco was feeling, he couldn't quite tell. He was certain the snitch was sent as a portkey by a Death Eater, but to what avail? To strand them in this bitter climate? To hope The Boy Who Lived simply froze to death? It was just like Potter to drag Draco to his demise. Draco was far too young to become an ice block; he was far too important not to be rescued.  
  
And if he wasn't rescued? Draco imagined a crew of wizards searching for his body, traveling these snow-crested hills (How would they find him? How would they know?) and stumbling upon his corpse, glacial and emaciated. He imagined his mother's face as she identified him – "Yes, it's my son. It's Draco Malfoy."  
  
He imagined nobody ever finding him.  
  
Suddenly Draco felt very sick, and he vomited into the snow.  
  
Harry didn't stir. Draco kicked snow over the mess and stood, scanning the horizon. Far in the distance, several grey jagged points jutted from the land. The sky was amazingly blue. It was a hue deeper than the ocean and clearer than anything he had ever seen before. The constant rich shade made the starkness of the land seem more severe, more awful, and more vast, and made Draco in comparison the smallest and most insignificant part of it. The sky stretched forever, a brilliant azure nothingness that haunted him and awed him every time he stole a glance at it.  
  
He trudged a few feet in each direction, then gave up, falling back into the snow. It was halfway to his knees, and the top layer was crunchy with ice. Beside him, the rise and fall of Harry's cloak proved little comfort to Draco.  
  
"Potter," he barked harshly. "Potter, do a goddamned warming spell or we really are going to freeze to death right here."  
  
A muffled voice piped from the mound of cloth. "I don't have my wand."  
  
"You _what?"  
_  
"It fell when I grabbed your boot."  
  
"Oh, Christ," Draco swore. "Oh, fuck. Hell. Damnit. Shit. Fuck, fuck, fuck."  
  
"Is that making you warmer?"  
  
Harry's eyes had peaked over his cloak. They were red and blotchy and made Draco tremble inside because if Harry was that scared than they really were damned.  
  
Draco glared at him, his lips tight. "We need to get somewhere."  
  
Harry tucked his head under his arms again. Anger raged through Draco, anger at Harry for doing nothing, anger at the world for bringing him here, and anger at the restless confusion and hopelessness that had beset him. Well. Fuck Harry.  
  
With a growl, Draco stamped off through the snow, away from Harry and into something unreservedly treacherous.  
  
- - -  
  
He wasn't letting himself think. He walked across the landscape, chilled but not as bad as he would be were he not wearing his Quidditch uniform. The leather boots warmed his legs, and the thick cloak and trousers were made for high altitudes where the wind was thin and bit like a viper.  
  
After crawling from the shallow valley he arrived in, Draco was able to see a dark line in the horizon. As he walked closer it made itself out to be a rugged line of trees whose branches were iced with snow that caused the green limbs to arc towards the ground with their heavy burden.  
  
Draco had never been north before; he'd never had any urge to. Right now he didn't know how far north he was, which continent he was on, or which bloody hemisphere given the possibility that he was incredibly far south, and he didn't much care, because Draco wasn't thinking. Not about that, at least. His mind whirled around the events of the previous week, month, year. Sixth year, Hogwarts was different. Not the good kind of different derived from a position on the Quidditch team or a new cut of robes or a new dorm mate because the other one had inexplicably blown himself up. His father was in Azkaban. There were no new robes or brooms. The students feared him less; he could no longer defend himself with his father's good name. There was only one person to blame, really; only one person to lunge all of his anger and discontent at.  
  
Draco Malfoy focused on Harry Potter as his face became burned and his eyes grew sore from the blinding white of the sun-reflecting snow. That year, their hatred had become more silent, more mature, more based on slight glances and pithy words instead of messy dueling. It became less public, more inward drawn; more intense and scathing and frigid in its wrath. It was perfect. Each, to the other, optimized everything they were against. And it had all accumulated to a single moment, in the sky, when Harry turned his wand on Draco's neck.  
  
A shadow of a tree hung over Draco and he fell against the trunk, gazing back over the land he covered. Draco fancied Harry still crouched around himself, weak and unable to summon the energy to stand. How the mighty have fallen, he might have said if Crabbe or Goyle stood behind him. But there was nobody, just the cold breath of wind, the sentinel trees, and the ice, silent and bitter.  
  
The pain of losing his wand gnawed at him, stung him through the cold, made everything seem more intense. Draco was an aristocrat. He couldn't hunt or find shelter or _survive_ without magic. But he couldn't fathom death. It loomed impossibly in the future and nothing, not the distant mountain peaks or the bleak blue sky could nudge it any closer. It simply couldn't happen.  
  
He sunk down and ate a handful of snow. It barely soothed his thirst but it took the edge off, as well as the smart of his panic. He decided to rest there for no longer than a half hour, at least until the sun reached higher in the sky and warmed the places between the dark forest shade.  
  
Closing his eyes, he thought he saw Harry wave to him from far below. The boy was standing on the base of a mountain, smiling melancholily as Draco turned his back on him.  
  
- - -  
  
"You're such a bastard, Malfoy."  
  
Draco's eyes opened to find Harry peering down at him, his face a rigid mask, his hands crossed over his chest. "Yes, undoubtedly. I see you've decided to get off your arse."  
  
"Fuck you," he spat.  
  
"Ouch." Draco stood, brushed the snow off his silver Quidditch gloves, and took several steps further into the forest.  
  
"You don't expect to do this without me, do you?" Harry asked, emotionless.  
  
Draco paused in his stride and turned slowly around. "Do what, exactly? Do you have a plan, Harry? Do you know how to get out of this one? Do you know _where we bloody are?"  
_  
"Somebody will find us. Until they do, we just need to survive."  
  
Draco scoffed. "I see you've thought this through."  
  
"We're in no immediate danger."  
  
"Right. That explains your post-portkey breakdown. 'No immediate danger' – what does that even mean? That we get to survive as long as our stomachs last us and our body temperature doesn't sink too far?"  
  
Harry shut his eyes and tightened his lips, and for a moment Draco thought he resembled the arctic, a man chiseled out of ice, wholly unmoving.  
  
"I hate you, Draco," he finally breathed, his breath smoke in front of him. "But right now, out here, we'd be fools not to stick together. Don't talk to me. Don't even acknowledge my presence, but don't leave me behind, because despite all, we're both scared and stranded and in danger of everything."  
  
Harry opened his eyes. All malevolence was gone from Draco's features, and his expression was as strict and unblemished as the frost. His life wasn't worth their rivalry. He knew that. So cautiously Draco nodded, and cautiously Harry stepped forward into the spruce forest, and together they walked into the wild.

* * *

**Not Complete. More Soon. Have A Nice Day.**


	2. Morning Star

**Disclaimer:** J.K. Rowling owns Harry Potter.  
  
**Summary:** Portkeyed to a savage northland wilderness, Draco and Harry must survive. Draco becomes inexorably bound to the wild and to Harry. Slash.

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**Aurora  
**  
Chapter Two: _Morning Star_  
  
  
A wide river rushed passed them, frothy and opaque like diluted milk, chunks of ice caught in the swift current and bobbing every now and then to the surface like a drowning glacier. It threatened and rumbled at Draco, who stood on the bank and watched it with irrevocable anguish. A few steps on the opposite bank was the entrance to a cave, its dark hole protruding from the ground, surrounded by bushes. It was shelter, and it was impossible to reach.  
  
"I don't know how we are going to ford it," spoke Harry softly from several meters behind him. Draco watched the angry waters.  
  
"We can't."  
  
"We have to try. This is the only shelter we've seen in miles. We're both tired and famished and –"  
  
Draco spun around and glared viciously at Harry. "The river doesn't care if you're hungry, Potter. It doesn't care if you're cold, or sad, or lonely. It will devour you." He paused contemplatively. "On that note, it's a grand idea. Step right up."  
  
Harry sighed, his face ashen and drawn. "Upstream, then."  
  
They walked parallel yet quite far apart. Harry's eyes darted around the trees; his whole body twitched whenever a twig snapped. He must have thought the Dark Lord was hiding behind a shrub, waiting to attack. He probably brooded on the situation, wondered what mayhem was wreaked at Hogwarts after he disappeared. He might, Draco thought, be so arrogant as to believe that Voldemort sent him here to get him out of the way, as if Harry and only Harry stood in the way of his seizure of the school.  
  
Draco scoffed to himself, then lifted his eyes to the sky. He thought detachedly that he should be more frightened, more angry at Harry, more concerned for himself. But he wasn't. Something had gripped him; an unbroken calm had coiled around his insides. It was cooler and more peaceful than any of the emotions that conflicted within him since the beginning of the term. It was a relief, he realized. Yes, he was stranded with Harry Potter. Yes, he was without magic, but magic and wizards and his chaotic life was left behind, forgotten inside the walls of Hogwarts. And here he was, in this frozen, perilous place, and if he listened to the rushing water and the crunch of his boots on old snow, he understood that he didn't, in fact, mind at all.  
  
Except for the part about Harry Potter.  
  
"Voldemort isn't here," Draco muttered, his eyes following the path of a hawk in the sky. Harry glanced sideways at him.  
  
"You don't know that. And he could be at Hogwarts. Everything you know could be gone at this instant." Harry's voice quivered as he continued. "That snitch really could have been meant for you, because Voldemort didn't want to kill a Malfoy. Hogwarts could be under attack."  
  
Draco shrugged and scooped another handful of snow into his mouth.  
  
"And you don't even care," Harry said self-righteously. "You don't care that Voldemort will destroy most everything you know. Your teachers: he'll kill Snape."  
  
"Please. You're just upset that you aren't there to save the day, if there's even a day to save. This could all just be an accident, a transfiguration assignment gone horribly wrong."  
  
Harry was quiet for a while. Then, faintly: "I wonder how Ron and Hermione are. Oh, it's nothing you would understand. Worry: it really only befalls those with people to care about, who care about them."  
  
Draco didn't acknowledge him. He didn't really care anymore. It might have bothered him earlier; indeed, he'd been bothered by the fact before, how Harry was so easily surrounded by friends, true friends, and Draco with...well, with Pansy. But the ache in his stomach and the throb of his legs and every physical discomfort he felt made it a trivial detail. What he felt was primitive, and somehow the lack of enlightened thought magnified the qualities of the wild. It made the air seem crisper, the cold seem sharper, and the danger seem more immense and unkind than ever before. And Draco swam in that with primal pleasure.  
  
The trees were growing thicker, so thick that he lost sight of the blue sky above. The snow on the ground grew thinner so that the dirt and dead grass protruded, old and seemingly unwelcome, like the sallow hand of the earth clawing ineffectually at the sun. The world became dim but slightly warmer as the trees insulated them from the nip of the wind.  
  
Harry and Draco slowed their paces and glanced unsurely at each other. Harry released his clutch on his robe and collapsed against a stone. "This is fine, at least for now."  
  
Draco nodded wearily. "It will suffice."  
  
He took a few steps in the direction of the river, which thundered and spewed a frigid mist from only several strides away. Turning his back on Harry, Draco leaned against the bark of a thick trunk, rolling his head back and easing his strained neck muscles. Sinking down, he became conscious of the increasing darkness overhead. The sun was fading away, and the soft pink light of dusk crept across the horizon.  
  
"What are we going to eat?" Draco asked to the wind. He didn't expect an answer, but Harry provided.  
  
"I don't know. Hopefully somebody will find us. We can last a few days without food."  
  
Draco scratched at the dirt with his fingers. "And suppose they don't?"  
  
This time, there was no response. They simply sat there, unmoving, as the rose of the sky turned to a murky purple which gave way to a clear and perfect darkness. Draco stood and moved to exit the small grove.  
  
"Where are you going?"  
  
"None of your damn business, Potter."  
  
He stalked off into the night, out to where the trees weren't so thick and the glassy heavens peered down at him through the sparse braches. The stars – Draco had never seen so many. He hadn't known they all existed. They were scattered across the night sky like tiny shards of glass, so distant and so seamless and so absolutely chilling.  
  
Draco had never looked at the stars in such a way before, like they were the most important thing in the world. It was new, and strange, and boasted of a different aspect of Draco's character, one lured from him by the wild. It was an aspect that was both sinister and gentle and indefinite in its quest for change. It was more esthetic than even he was used to being, but an estheticism that had nothing to do with himself but more with the startling brilliance around him. Or maybe it was incredibly personal; maybe, Draco thought, he pictured himself as part of the arctic. Because how could he see something so great and flawless and not be moved?  
  
Behind him came the crunch of snow and the slight intake of breath. He pivoted his head slowly, calmly. Harry's eyes were raised to the stars, the soft blue light contrasting his dark hair with his pale skin so that he seemed to be drastically polarized, a black and white creature. The angle of his cheekbones gave him a feral if not icy appearance.  
  
Their eyes met in a fury of green and silver. Harry, Draco acknowledged, was the only person around for miles. They were stranded together without anyone to stop them if they fought or heal them if they hurt each other. Also, there was nothing but past memories to fuel their rivalry. They really had no _reason_ to hate each other, at least while they were out here, alone, somewhere west of nothingness.  
  
Their gaze remained locked for several moments longer, a silent acceptance of the situation. When Harry turned his eyes once more to the stars, Draco felt a burn in his spirit that had nothing to do with the land. It was something like bile rising in his throat, and he turned his back on the boy and tramped back to the camp, unsettled and searching for that wonderful tranquility that seemed to have skirted away with a glance.  
  
But as soon as he laid down, his cloak wrapped around his lean body and drawn over his head, sleep decided to descend and nothing, not the stir of a blizzard or the flood of the river could have woken him.  
  
- - -  
  
The world was still the color of pitch when Draco next opened his eyes. He sat there for a moment, attempting to keep all thought at bay. He tried to ignore the rocks digging in his back, the intense cold that pricked even through his uniform; he tried to sleep again. But sleep had retreated to a place as unreachable as the opposite river bank, and Draco sat upright, rubbing his arms furiously around his body, grappling for warmth.  
  
There was hardly an ounce of light in the grove, yet he could see Harry sitting several trees away, curled into himself like a cat, his head tucked under his arms and his legs pressed to his chest. His cloak had shied away from his face and his eyes fluttered. Draco wondered if he was dreaming and what he was dreaming about. He wondered when Harry had fallen asleep, if he had stayed out much longer watching the stars, and then, absently, when he had begun referring to him as 'Harry.'  
  
Draco didn't let himself be puzzled by these thoughts. He'd had too many that would be deemed as unorthodox or against his character for as long as he could remember. To him, that's all they were: offhand musings of the mind, entirely irrelevant and not worth the time to ponder or fret over. But seeing Harry was more than a thought; it was an actual, physical experience. It always had been.  
  
Not to say he enjoyed it. Joy was relative. Joy was something he felt when he pleased his father or received a good mark on an assignment (which he always did.) It was different than optimism. Joy was fleeting. Right now, Draco was...absorbed. He watched Harry, his dark hair falling into his eyes and his shoulders raising slightly with every breath, and an instinctual part of him wanted to reach out and curl around Harry, to finally feel warm again.  
  
Draco told himself it was only an irrelevant thought. He then made the decision to search for food. (In the dark. But he didn't concern himself with that.) Something inside of him didn't want to sleep; a deep, intuitive part of him, the part that truly loves to fly and use magic, the part that thrills at a duel and the part that, afterwards, makes him return to his dorm for a congratulatory whacking off; well, that part was restless.  
  
Draco didn't know much about nature, save for the fact that the sun rose in the east and set in the west. As far as food went, the idea was that he would forage for berries and that his five solid years in Herbology would pay off. He did, however, manage to neglect the fact that the land seemed to be rather barren at the moment.  
  
Could he fish in the river? How would he clean his catch? Draco vaguely remembered a dish served to him where the skin of the salmon was not removed, but he also remembered pushing it around on his plate until he could find an excuse to leave the table. Neither did Draco have much experience fishing – he'd only fished once on a vacation with his family. And even then he hadn't had to clean it.  
  
Despite this, he had to try. It was that or starve. So tentatively Draco prodded around the trees for something to use as a line, before sighing and ripping a thin twine string of stitching from his robes.  
  
The sky was lighter, this time the color of faded denim. The piercing cry of a bird would occasionally traverse the sky, but other than that the world was silent, undemanding, and peaceful.  
  
Draco didn't know how the fishing endeavor would go. His hungry stomach churned as he twisted a small sharp pin from the sole of his boot into the shape of a hook and attached it to the string. Carefully, Draco strode over to the edge of the river, his heart lurching to his throat as he noted, once again, the swiftness of the current. One small misstep....  
  
He peered into the waters and grinned. Hundreds of fish must have been swimming upstream – hundreds. Surely he would catch one.  
  
More than one, he reminded himself. He wasn't just fishing for himself, but for Harry, who still slept quietly in the early morning light. So he dug a small insect from the ground, trapped its twitching form on the hook, and lowered the line.  
  
The fish seemed to evade it. He let it sit there for minutes, then withdrew and stamped further up the bank and lowered it in again. Nothing. His heart was sinking and his stomach was rumbling painfully, but nothing hurt more than the disappointment. This one failure seemed to encompass all others in matters of importance, a fact which he couldn't dispute yet didn't understand.  
  
Eventually, a block of ice that hurried downstream caught the hook and jerked the line out of his hands. Draco nearly wept. The snow was sparkling with sunlight when he turned his back on the lake and retreated into the grove, feeling as if the world itself had betrayed him. He slumped against a tree, his eyes turning to Harry, who had stretched himself out on the hard ground, pine needles embedded in his dark hair, still asleep.  
  
Draco felt more wretched with every passing moment. He didn't know why he'd acquired the strange impulse to find food; he supposed he was proving himself. He'd never had a real opportunity to prove himself before. School, Quidditch – he cared about those things the way a child would. It was his duty, his obligation, but he'd never put any deeper thought into them. He'd never wanted to do them because some innate part of his character told him it was right to. This, this survival – it was so far beyond just himself. It was Harry, and it was their lives, their chance to see everything and anything on the earth, their _right_ to see it. It was their right to see the mountains and the tundra and the stars, and suddenly it became astoundingly important for Draco to protect that.  
  
_That_ was intuitive, primordial survival, Draco figured, watching Harry roll onto his back and sigh a smoky breath into the early morning. His eyes fluttered open and he blinked furiously at the trees above him, confused, then afraid, then rueful with acceptance as his gaze came to rest on Draco.  
  
"I'd hoped it was just a horrible dream," he spoke, his voice rough.  
  
"No," replied Draco. "No, it's incredibly real."  
  
Harry sat up and tugged his cloak back around his shoulders. He glared malevolently at the area around him while he shivered. His hair was in more of a disarray then ever, the dryness of the air causing it to stand above his head like a great black lion's mane. Draco chucked softly, unheard.  
  
"Christ, even this dirt looks appetizing. Have you tried eating dirt yet?"  
  
"Yes, Harry. I've eaten dirt. Go ahead and taste a bit – it's probably better than the meals you're served at home."  
  
Harry glanced up at him, but he wasn't angry. Instead he was intense and even slightly amused. "It probably is," he replied, then prodded at the ground, a slight grin painting his too-pale face. "But seriously – "  
  
"I know. I've been awake for a few hours. I –" Draco paused, then sighed discontentedly. "I tried to fish. It wasn't very successful."  
  
"You tried to fish?"  
  
"I –"  
  
"Draco Malfoy tried to fish?" A low, chime-like laugh echoed through the forest, and Harry's expression was that of intense pleasure. Draco understood why everybody adored him. "I can't believe it. You actually tried to fish."  
  
Irritation boiled in Draco. "I know how to," he replied resentfully. "I am competent."  
  
"Really? Where's breakfast, then?"  
  
In his fury, Draco stood and marched over to the river. His acceptance of Harry had turned to antagonism once again, and angrily he threw himself on the snowy bank and glared at the fish swimming upstream in clusters.  
  
"I should be able to fucking grab one of you. I'm a _Malfoy_." He plunged his arms into the water. It was cold - not the cold of a simple shower prank or even the cold of gripping a snowball too long. It was glacial, and deep, and so unexpected it made Draco gasp.  
  
But he didn't withdraw, though small shards of ice stung his skin and the waters threatened to drag him away. The fish swam through his fingers, and he let them for the first moments. Then, like a vice, his fingers snapped on one, dug into the slippery flesh and held.  
  
It was ecstasy. He didn't think something as elemental as catching a fish could make him well with pride, but it did. Slowly he removed his arms from the water and, unable to carry the struggling fish much longer, hurried away from the river and hurled it on the ground where it flopped in vain for some time and then stopped, lifeless.  
  
He saw Harry's long shadow moved behind him before he heard the boy clear his throat. Draco turned around and raised his perfect silver eyebrows.  
  
Harry eyed the fish. "You're a complete basket case, Malfoy."  
  
"And you're an ungrateful prat, Potter. This is our food. _Our_ food, yes, don't look so shocked. I wouldn't let you starve."  
  
Harry's lips twitched. "It would be a good idea on your part. If you let me die, you could eat me for food."  
  
Draco had never heard anything so horrendous in his entire life, and his expression showed it. Harry laughed that chiming laugh again, and Draco forgot any pretense of anger.  
  
"Do you know how to start a fire?" Draco asked.  
  
"Yes. It involves matches or a wand. I don't suppose you have either on you? No? Then we'll have to eat it raw."  
  
"Eat it – eat it _raw_? That's more insane than me eating you."  
  
Harry stepped over to Draco's side and picked up the fish, dangling it by its tale and striding back over to the grove. Draco followed, his eyes on the catch, protective of it. Harry brushed dirt from the top of a flat rock and set the fish down on it.  
  
"Yes, Draco, eat it raw. Did you think it would be smoothly filleted for you? Like you said before, the wild doesn't care if you're hungry. It's not going to provide a wood smoke oven and pairing knives." Harry abruptly sounded quite cross, and he fumed for a moment, staring into the forest. "Gods, this is an ugly place." And then, grabbing a sharp rock from a patch of snow, Harry stabbed into the fish and watched the blood flow. He stripped the skin open, all the while shaking his head irately. It was such a drastic change of disposition that Draco stepped back. "We have to be rescued soon. We can't live here. I have to be back at Hogwarts, I have to know what's happening. I –" he paused, then became solemn. "I so badly wish this hadn't happened."  
  
Draco's appalled mind was still struggling with the idea that Harry thought this place was ugly. It wasn't. It was astounding, and lovely, and wasn't even within Draco to comprehend its vastness. And when Draco heard the last line – "I wish this hadn't happened" – Draco knew it was wrong.  
  
Because for Draco, losing himself in the wilderness was the best thing that ever happened.

* * *

**  
  
Thanks to those who reviewed and gave me advice – I appreciate it, and I'll try and take it to heart with the rest of the story, even if I don't always succeed. **


	3. To Gabriel: A Song

**Disclaimer:** J.K. Rowling owns Harry Potter.  
  
**Summary:** Portkeyed to a savage northland wilderness, Draco and Harry must survive. Draco becomes inexorably bound to the wild and to Harry. Slash.

* * *

**Aurora**  
  
Chapter Three: _To Gabriel: A Song_

It was several hours since Draco had eaten, and he was actually keeping it down. He was even hungry again, but the idea of catching and eating further raw fish made him more queasy than just eating it had. Looking back, he didn't know how he managed the task. It was clear and slippery and flavored with the metallic taste of blood and the deep waters. Harry had an equally difficult time with each bite, but where Draco remained calm, Harry ate with a trembling agitation.  
  
Clouds swarmed about the sky, so high and distant, like angels passing over the land. It was a relief from the impending starkness of the clear skies, yet warned the world of snow and alerted Harry and Draco to the need of immediate shelter. They realized most caves would already contain inhabitants; in fact, while trekking down the river, Draco passed the cave he'd gazed so longingly at the previous day, only to peer further inside and see a huge bear sleeping cozily.  
  
"Maybe it stored berries for the winter," said Harry. "If we can ever get over there, we should look."  
  
Draco gazed incredulously at him. "A sleeping bear is still a bear, Harry." Then he shook his head. "I think you're the one with the death wish."  
  
Harry's following chuckle was hollow and devoid of humor.  
  
They were on a quest for wood. Dead branches, fallen branches, anything that could be used to build a makeshift shelter for the night. Or for longer – Draco was beginning to develop the slightly exhilarating feeling that they were going to be stranded there for no short period of time. Harry seemed to be aware of this as well, but he welcomed the news with curt sentences and a distant manner. Not that Draco expected Harry to react any differently towards him: they were, after all, accustomed to rivalry. But because Draco had found such solace and respite and absolute freedom from his normal life in this wild country, he naturally expected Harry to feel the same. It was shocking when he didn't. It was shocking that, instead of stopping to watch a herd of caribou, Harry trampled on, his head turned the ground and his eyes turned inward. It was shocking that he obtained such a look of fear in his eyes when he gazed upon the distant mountains. For somebody who had battled a dark lord, it was shocking that Harry was petrified by a factor so seemingly harmless as isolation.  
  
This was their third trip. Harry carried armfuls of sticks as long as his legs, while Draco used both his arms to transport larger, sturdier wood, wood that would provide the frame of their structure. Draco stumbled a few paces and then stopped, his breath ragged.  
  
"Let's rest."  
  
Harry dropped his load and sank into the snow. He then began work on removing his boots, his fingers working numbly at the ties. "I don't know how much longer I can stand to wear the same clothes," he said. "I – we're _both_ going to start to smell soon. And it isn't as if we can hop in the river for a quick rinse. We'd bloody drown, and we'd freeze. Oh, shit. My sock is starting to rip." Harry angrily shoved his foot back into his shoe and laced up. He then reclined, closing his eyes against the weak sunlight.  
  
Draco was frustrated. He wanted to make Harry understand. He wanted to make him, the only person around for miles, understand the simple beauty all about them. Draco had been raised to admire things, and he never could comprehend why others so pointedly chose to ignore magnificence.  
  
Farther away, the subtle hills of snow gave way to sharp, severe mountains, cold and grey and capped with ice. They were ancient, more ancient than Hogwarts, more ancient than all of wizarding kind. When Draco looked upon them, he felt a rumbling in his spirit. Not the acidic bite of heat he felt when he stared at Harry for too long, but a delicate lure, a connection with something old, solid, and everlasting. He imagined himself climbing the mountain crags and seeing the whole world spread out below him. He imagined the river reduced to the size of a thin pencil sketch. He imagined every human that lived before him and every human that was to live after him. As he looked at the ancient landscape, he felt like he was part of something huger than himself. It was a cold, deep feeling.  
  
He also recognized an importance that lay just out of reach, something he was missing, something he wanted to scratch at like an itch.  
  
He saw Harry shift and open his eyes.  
  
"Would you have killed me?" Draco asked evenly. He didn't expect to ask that. "If I hadn't said anything, would you have?"  
  
Harry sat up, surprisingly pained by the question. "I... I don't think I had the power to."  
  
"Would you have completed the curse?"  
  
Harry was still. Then, slowly, he shook his head. "No. I wanted to. I hated you enough. But I don't think I could ever – kill – you." Silence. Then, slowly, and in a voice hardly above a whisper: "I'm glad I didn't. I'm glad your here. I wouldn't want to be alone."  
  
His eyes were open, honest, frank. Draco held his gaze. Then, lifting himself from the ground, he strode over to Harry and extended his ungloved hand.  
  
At Harry's intake of breath, Draco feared he would reject it. But he didn't. His hand embraced Draco's and Draco pulled him from the ground. Their skin should have been cold, but all Draco felt of Harry was a spreading warmth and that strange, half-asleep, washed-over sensation. His eyes swam with dark hair and emerald.  
  
Harry was watching him as well, but his expression was nervous and flighty. His arm barely trembled as he smiled tentatively. Draco wanted to grin back, wanted to get under Harry's cloak, wanted to –  
  
But he remained frozen, amazed at Harry and what such simple contact could arouse. Harry, unsure now, dropped his hand and gathered back his woodpile. Draco breathed his name, Harry, but the only residue of it was a soft flush into the wind.  
  
Thick marshmallow clouds blotted out the light of the sun. The further they walked, retracing their own footsteps, the quieter the wood became. Birds found their nests, small animals dove into underground tunnels, and Harry and Draco shared a nervous look. They increased their pace.  
  
When they finally sank back into the comfort of the grove, the wind was howling through the branches overhead and the sky was murky.  
  
"Something wicked this way comes," quoted Harry.  
  
"There's nothing magical about this storm."  
  
Harry looked at Draco seriously. "I don't think you quite understand the danger we're in, Draco. You kept us from starving. That's wonderful. But do you realize that if we are going to survive, there are so many more factors we'll have to overcome than just hunger? You don't seem entirely together, like your mind is half with me and half in the sky. You can admire the land, but don't shrug off the threat of it. That's arrogant, and it will get you killed."  
  
Draco furrowed his eyebrows and opened his mouth to speak, but a clash of thunder ripped through the sky and blew away any form of response.  
  
"We need to get to work," said Harry.  
  
They worked for the better part of the hour, laying the longer branches they gathered parallel on the sturdy tree limbs above. The smaller branches were placed between the gaps in the other wood, providing a formidable ceiling. Draco was rather impressed. The walls were made of the large branches and several thick, wide slabs of bark. Lastly, the floor was lined with pine needles. Harry said this was for insulation.  
  
The thunder had grown more fierce and the sky was as dark as late evening. The winds brought with them the scent of snow and ice and a bitter chill that boasted of a blizzard. Draco crawled through the small opening they left for an entrance and hunched over in the corner. The shelter was only maybe the size of his four-poster bed, and rose to the height of his shoulders.  
  
Harry scrambled in after him and sank down by the opposite wall. It was even darker inside. Only small sections of brightness peeked through the spaces in the walls, and even that light was dim and the shade of iron. If possible, the world was growing colder.  
  
Draco caught Harry's eyes. "I do understand the danger. It's part of why I am happy. This is the sort of danger that is not unjust, the sort of danger that doesn't pick favorites."  
  
Harry grinned. "I thought you enjoyed being the favorite."  
  
"Yes. Immensely. But this is different. I can't explain it; I don't think I want to."  
  
"Fair enough," Harry said. But it wasn't. Now Draco had to explain. He didn't know why. It was that itch again, an obligation to make somebody beside himself appreciate his thoughts.  
  
"You've had to prove yourself your whole life, Harry. I've been expected to do nothing except win. It bothered me that I didn't, but now I realize that doesn't matter. Nothing that trivial has to matter, out here. I have no obligations. I have nothing. In the end, you know, we all return to the wild."  
  
Harry watched him silently for so long that Draco thought he'd frozen to death. Then, his voice matching the low pitch of the wind, he said, "Maybe that works for you, but I could never be free of those obligations. They aren't obligations for me. I _want_ to do them. I never stop thinking about my friends, and no amount of snow is going to wash that out of me. They are the reason I'm so scared."  
  
That burning feeling mixed with despair. How could he have expected Harry to understand?  
  
Then the snow came. It seemed impossible that it could reach their overgrown grove, but it did. The flakes built and built and the wind roared and the lightening cracked above them and showed each boy's countenance to be stark white. The wood around them shook. It was like heaven itself was ripping open and the Gods were snarling and wailing, bringing havoc upon them.  
  
Both Draco and Harry moved to the center of the room, their backs pressed firmly against each other, watching the storm rage outside. The wind was now so loud that they couldn't hear anything else. It was the sound of a plane's engine, circling around them. There was nothing to see outside except for the white of the snow that piled around them, in the small entrance and on the roof, weighing it down and threatening to collapse. And through this fury Draco could have sworn he heard a song, a song invented by the wind and the creaking of the wood, a song to the angels, a song whose music was lost by time and human distortion and was being revived with every gust. Draco listened, his eyes wide open and his body quaking with shivers, and he didn't think about anything else. He was lost within the storm. It was tragic, and treacherous, and Draco, he fucking _understood_. This wasn't about him.  
  
A few logs blew away from the side of the wall, and snow flooded in. The temperature dropped.  
  
"We have to do something," cried Harry, who stood and removed his cloak.  
  
"Are you insane? You'll freeze!" Draco hollered. But Harry continued. He fastened the cloak around where the wood had fallen and tucked it into the ceiling. It was dark crimson, the color of blood, and mocked them from where it hung.  
  
Harry dropped to the ground and curled up. He was now only wearing a sweater, and his lips obtained a tinge of blue. Draco didn't even think about it. He reached out and drew Harry near him and wrapped him in his cloak.  
  
Even in his condition, Harry was warmer than anything Draco had ever touched. His face flushed with heat as Harry turned his eyes to Draco's in a stare that was both grateful and frightened. His skin was colorless. Draco reached his hands to his cheeks and felt his fingers burn where they touched, and felt the hot acidity in the back of his throat and in his gut. His insides swam, his lungs constricted, and the longer Harry held his gaze the more Draco felt he would be consumed.  
  
Harry pulled the cloak more tightly around them, and it grew warmer. Draco could hardly breathe. It was almost painful. Was that Harry's heart racing ever faster, or his own? He didn't know. It didn't matter. Another gust of wind blew through the space and Harry wrapped his arms around Draco, burying his face in Draco's shoulder. "I'm so cold," he whispered. Draco's was face close to Harry's neck, allowing him to feel every tremor of his voice.  
  
Draco was truly, openly afraid. They both were shivering violently and the wind would not relent. Draco shut his eyes, lay his face against Harry's hair, and listened to the song of the storm. It was terrifying and solemn. Draco was afraid to die; he was afraid for Harry to die, but he understood he didn't have a choice. Not anymore. So he just listened, and somewhere deep inside of him, he prayed.  
  
It was an eternity before the storm died down. But, Draco thought, his arms twined around Harry's waist and Harry's breath coming feverously against his neck, an eternity had never been better spent.


	4. Armed in Gold

**Disclaimer:** J.K. Rowling owns Harry Potter.

**Summary:** Portkeyed to a savage northland wilderness, Draco and Harry must survive. Draco becomes inexorably bound to the wild and to Harry, but eventually a choice must be made. Slash.

* * *

Chapter Four: _Armed in Gold_

The storm had passed.

Harry still clutched Draco. Whether he was even aware of the storm's end or whether he was lost in a storm of his own was entirely Draco's guess. But he didn't let go, and Draco didn't push him away.

Something had changed. For the thousandth time since they arrived in this foreign land, Draco knew he was different, knew the majority of his old life was displaced. And now there was no denying that somewhere along the line, Harry had begun to change as well. It was slow, and of course Draco wouldn't ask him to forget his friends or his fears. Maybe that didn't matter.

Draco's stomach was in a knot. He couldn't seem to relax, not with Harry so close, not with the upsetting sensations warring in him. He didn't want to analyze anything. How could he even put a name to what he was feeling? How could he possibly consider the meaning behind the strange caustic excitement that wouldn't fade?

Harry shifted slightly and raised his head. His glance at Draco stopped his breath and any thought he possessed. Their faces were so close together that he could see himself in Harry's thick glasses.

"Thank you," he whispered, a blush creeping upon his cheeks. Draco felt himself sit stiffly. He felt odd; his hands and nose and lips felt too big, his hair felt too long, and his position felt too awkward. He was aware of _everything,_ every part of his body and every slight move that Harry made.

"I – I didn't want to have to eat you if you froze."

Harry paused, then laughed with real, true humor. Then, embarrassedly, he disentangled himself from Draco's arms and retrieved his cloak from the wall. The cold took Harry's place and Draco shivered, hard, noting an even more chilling emptiness that choked him and made his heart pang. Attempting to distract the void, Draco peered outside through a small crack, noting that night had fallen; he wondered idly who had first deemed that night _fell_. To Draco, the night seemed to be eternal and ever-present, and it was the daylight that intruded upon the dark solitude.

"Harry, do you think –" Draco quieted. Harry was curled into a tight ball in the corner, his head resting on his cloak which rested on a pile of snow. His eyes were shut tightly against whatever demons would soon enter his sleep.

Draco never had any trouble sleeping. In fact, he adored it – it was the only time in his life when he could escape. He had never been troubled by nightmares, had never crouched under his green satin sheets until dawn, waiting for monsters to retreat. He simply slept, undisturbed and unwanting, until the sun gently prodded him into wakefulness. Draco also never dreamed. As he watched the night sky, which appeared as if someone had punched a thousand holes in black canvass and let the ethereal light shine through, he figured he didn't need to dream. His reality was good enough.

Harry was different. Draco heard Harry had nightmares – terrible ones, ones that involved Voldemort and Death Eaters and so many horrors he'd seen that Draco would never wish to be partial to. He watched Harry turn over, his eyebrows furrowed in an expression of anxiety, and suddenly Draco was immensely uncomfortable. He thought that Harry's dreams were ripping through the fragile bond of consciousness, clawing at Draco, making him afraid for all the wrong reasons. And he didn't want that. Not for him, and not for Harry; so Draco did the only thing he knew how to do. He sat down next to Harry and gently moved the other boy's hand so it rested lightly atop Draco's. He didn't know what that was supposed to accomplish; maybe it would calm Harry, maybe it would chase away his fear; maybe it wouldn't help at all. But that soft contact was enough to make Draco forget that he was confused; it took the edge off the burning in his heart. It was enough to make Draco forget that he could be, possibly but not entirely for certain, completely infatuated.

He didn't look at Harry before he fell asleep. That would ruin the illusion – something Draco didn't usually give into. He wasn't whimsical, just idealistic. Perhaps the world made an exception for those who were lost. He hoped so. He hoped intensely that if the world let him pretend, just this once, that maybe Harry could be, possibly but not entirely for certain, completely infatuated as well – at least for this night – he wouldn't ask for anything ever again.

Draco fell asleep imagining that wonderful colors danced in the sky above his closed eyes.

- - -

His stomach spasmed in the night. That was the only recollection he had of his slumber; that, and a divine, fluttery emotion that had surfaced, leaving the corners of his mouth twitched in a semblance of a smile. When he opened his eyes, though, he was confused. It was bright, too bright to be in the shelter, and colder and more windy than the wooden walls would have allowed. That's when he noticed Harry, who was shuffling around beside him. Draco sat up, alarmed. One of the walls was missing.

Harry saw Draco move and he smiled tentatively. "We were snowed in on the other side, so I removed some of the branches. We need to find food," he softly said. His hair was damp with snow and the circles under his eyes were dark, but the irises themselves were alive with a vividness that made Draco flushed and nervous. He briefly wondered if Harry remembered Draco holding his hand the previous night; then, with anxiety, he realized Harry had been the first to awake and surely was made aware. More of a blush rose to Draco's cheeks and he turned around, pretending to search for something on the other side of the cabin.

His stomach ached terribly. It gnawed at him like a feral creature, biting and snarling and demanding. It was a petulant child. And no matter how Draco tried to think of more pleasant things, the impending need for food was overpowering, and he gave into it. His embarrassment was almost forgotten.

Had he realized, then, what is so fundamental about human nature? Did it even register in Draco's mind that he was subject to the most primitive of obstacles? Could he even begin to fathom that he was what poets and artists and intellectuals had raved about for centuries? Draco watched the morning sun strike the earth at a deep angle, its rays casting the trees in long shadows. Some part of him knew, knew that his inherent, most primal nature was warring with his years of learned culture and sophistication. Somewhere, he acknowledged that only one force could push down his immediate lust and withdraw a rawness to his spirit; that he was progressively more attracted to Harry while at the same time he was growing a fondness for the land and the wonderful, visceral happiness of only being captivated by his need for the essentials of life. That brought freedom. And he knew a time would come when these two parties would conflict. But not now. Now, there was Harry, and himself, and the lonely planet.

"We can go fishing again, Draco. You can teach me how you caught that fish. I must admit, I was pretty impressed."

Draco grinned a cocky, arrogant grin. "It's not the same as catching the snitch, you know." At the mention of this, Harry's eyes grew darker. Draco shrugged it off and let Harry follow him to the river. "I don't even remember what I did," he admitted. "I was angry – I just sort of snapped on it with my hands. But you have to hold on tightly. The fish are huge, and they put up a fight."

"Of course they do. You're clawing the life out of them," Harry said.

Draco smirked and watched Harry lay down on the bank and shove his hands into the water. His face contorted as the icy waters stung his flesh, but he was persistent. The first few times he tried to grab one he was unsuccessful and his brows furrowed in frustration, and Draco observed his failure as if it was he, in fact, who had failed. He wanted Harry to succeed, as if that would fill some vacant need in him.

Finally Harry lurched back from the river, hugging a salmon. It slipped from his arms and struggled on the snow, and it would have dropped back into the water had Draco not lunged to the ground and pushed it away. "Thanks," Harry muttered.

Draco's robed arm brushed Harry's cloak, yet he still shivered. Even when he turned around, he felt exactly where Harry was. When he closed his eyes, he never stopped seeing the deep emerald pools bearing into his own. It was the closest thing to obsession Draco had ever experienced.

The fish's mouth gaped a few times, then fell still. "I don't know if I can eat it raw again, Harry. It was just too disgusting."

Harry sighed. "I've been thinking about that. It's so wet everywhere, but there are a few dry, dead leaves and pieces of wood. If I used the lens of my glasses against the sun, then we might be able to, conceivably, start a fire." At Draco's eager expression, Harry hurriedly explained, "But I've never done it before, and I have no idea if it would work, or if it would just smoke a lot."

"It's worth a try." Draco stood.

"Where do you think you're going?" Draco turned around, puzzled. Harry signaled toward the river. "I'm starving. I'm going to eat this entire fish, head, bones and tail." He smiled charmingly, but Draco saw his complexion was pale and he was trembling ever so slightly. There was an entrenched look of hunger in his face, in the strained muscles of his jaw.

"Go back to the grove and try and start a fire," he replied. Shakily Harry stood. As he brushed past Draco, their eyes met. There was a knowing insight to Harry's; an insecure passion that nevertheless met Draco's severe gaze with ferocity. Draco trembled.

Catching a fish took him longer this time. When he did, and when Harry was out of sight, Draco tossed it on the ground and pissed behind a tree.

It was all very well that he cocked up his feelings to inevitability, but they still troubled him. Draco turned his eyes to the horizon. The sun was inching higher in the sky. It was a perfect day; you wouldn't believe there had ever been a blizzard if you'd just woken up. That was the way the arctic was. All of the ugliness, all of the malice, was buried with each new snowfall, forgotten under a blanket of white. Draco loved that. It was what made everything seem so perfect, so enchanting, and so very untouchable. The world went on, the song never died, the prayer never ended. It simply...changed.

Harry was crouched over a pile of leaves when Draco returned. His glasses were in his hands, and a bright, small dot of light burnt through the foliage. Draco tossed his fish next to Harry's and sat opposite him. There were a few branches lain beside him to build up the fire.

"It's just smoking, like I said. I can't figure out how to make it flame," Harry said, his voice upset and near a whimper. It was clear he was almost ready to give up, and not just on the fire. He looked like he wanted nothing more than to lay in the snow, close his eyes, and never wake up.

Draco's stomach lurched and he grabbed the glasses from Harry. Without them, he looked vulnerable, open for attack. Draco didn't like that. It invaded his belief that Harry was strong, because even if he was scared, he was facing it, and wasn't that what true courage was?

Draco angled the sun so the beam hit the lower leaves. Harry set some thin twigs in a pyramid shape around the pile. And they waited. It smoked, and most of the leaves had already turned to ash, and still a flame evaded them. Harry bit his lip and clenched his eyes shut. After endless minutes and after his arm had cramped, Draco sighed and handed the glasses back to Harry, who put them on and watched the ash sullenly.

"Just eat it, Draco. It's been two nights. We can't give up now, just because we don't want to taste raw fish again."

Draco eyed the fish and his mouth tightened in a thin line. "I don't see the point of eating them without a fire. Because we have to figure out how to build a fire eventually, and this should be our motivation."

Harry turned tired eyes to Draco. "Do you really think we'll be here for that much longer? Do you really think that nobody will come?"

It was then that Draco realized something about Harry, and, in turn, about himself. Harry always had hope. He had hope that the world could be better, that people were inherently decent, and that good would always triumph over evil. He believed that somebody would find us, in part because people had always come through for him before, and partly because he _wanted_ to. He wanted to go home, to get back to Hogwarts and curl next to the fire of the plush Gryffindor common room. He had friends; he had reasons to return. And Draco didn't. He could stay here forever.

"I think we need to prepare for if they don't find us," he responded. His stomach twitched in hunger.

"Then we can't stop trying," Harry decided, and built the leaves and twigs back up.

They were half inside the shelter, and large branches lay all around them. Draco snapped some of these in half and made a small barricade against the wind. He also used his body to brake the gale.

He stared up at the sun in a reverent, deferential way. They were entirely at its mercy. This, Draco thought, must be how humans had felt thousands of years ago when they first began to rub two sticks together. A hopeful, expectant silence settled over the area. Draco watched Harry hold the beam to the leaves, which withered with ash but did not catch. To the sky he sent a silent plea – no, not a plea. Nothing here was merciful. It was more a resignation, a wave of defeat but not displeasure, a complete surrendering. If anyone had ever spoken of a God, Draco felt sure this was he – the commanding voice of the wind, the deep blue glaciers, and the sun, which held reigns over their lives in such a tight, patriarchal, reserved manner that he couldn't help but feel privileged to have been allowed to live this long already.

Harry was holding his breath, intent on the leaves and brush. Draco held his breath as well and peered closely at the bright spot of heat. Sweat formed on his brow and his stomach once again panged, but his mind was resolute: they had to make this happen. Then, impossibly, there was a flicker. He gasped. The flicker spread to the other leaves until it was a flame, no larger than a candle's and in serious danger of extinguishing in the blink of an eye. Harry anxiously caught alight some underbrush and more leaves and pine needles and it grew more substantial. The twigs even caught. Fire! Draco released his breath and hastily placed more small branches on top of it until it was large and hot enough to catch alight the larger pieces of wood.

The wild smile that painted Harry's features made Draco want to laugh and shout and dance around the forest. Instead, though, he dared to rest his hand on Harry's knee and grin back. "Well done, Harry."

Their gaze lasted longer than it should have without words. But Draco wanted more. Oh, he wanted so much more, so much that he couldn't name and didn't even know the words for. Whatever it was, though, it would have to wait.

Harry and Draco ate well that morning. In fact, Draco didn't think anything had ever tasted so wonderful. He wasn't full; he really didn't think he would ever be again, but it was a far cry from the savage need for food.

After they tossed the remains to the trees, they lay back against the snow. They decided to keep the fire alive for as long as possible; it had been too difficult to ignite, and something about this accomplishment begged to be sustained.

"It's not so horrible, I suppose," admitted Harry. Even after the previous night, which Harry had neglected to mention entirely, they still remained physically distant. It wasn't that Draco didn't _want_ to touch Harry again; he just needed permission. It was silly that in such a lawless place, the barrier of human restraint proved substantial enough to keep them apart.

"It's definitely better than potions," he continued. "But the question still nags: _why_ are we here? Who sent us? And when, if ever, will we return?"

Draco chewed on a chunk of ice. "I don't know. For some reason, not knowing doesn't bother me. This is an...adventure."

"I'm sick of adventure."

Draco propped himself up on his elbow and grinned sympathetically. "I'm sorry."

Harry's eyes blazed. "I would never have thought."

"What?"

"I would never have imagined you would apologize to me."

"Not for years of insults! Those you have to suck up, Potter. Just for –"

"I know. And thank you."

Harry sunk back into the snow and smiled at the sky. It had to be noon. "Gods, what do we _do_ here?"

"Nothing. Isn't it glorious?"

"Cold. Silent. Lonely. But yes, in its own way it's glorious, Draco."

He didn't think Harry was talking about the arctic. His chest burned again, and he felt like he couldn't breathe. To think that maybe – it would be too perfect. But then again, so was all of this.


	5. Lawless, Winged, and Unconfined

**Disclaimer:** J.K. Rowling owns Harry Potter. The title is filched shamelessly from William Blake, whom I adore.

**Summary:** Portkeyed to a savage northland wilderness, Draco and Harry must survive. Draco becomes inexorably bound to the wild and to Harry, but eventually a choice must be made. Slash.

* * *

Chapter Five: _Lawless, Winged, and Unconfined_

Draco remembered Christmases at the Malfoy manor.

Green and silver decorated the halls, green and silver like frosted bows of an evergreen or the cool coloring of a snake. The only traces of red were the holly berries that adorned the wreaths; to be fair, wreaths were necessary for every door, but compared to the smothering of the other two colors, red wasn't given a fair chance. Lucius was never very fond of it; he said it was too ostentatious. Even at a young age, Draco didn't miss the irony in the statement.

His mother, Draco knew, loved the color red. Wearing it was one of the many liberties she relinquished when she married his father, and even though it was the most materialistic, Draco thought it pained her the most. At first, he was quite impartial to it; when he began his schooling at Hogwarts, he grew to resent the color. It resembled all of the things he couldn't have. Red, to Draco Malfoy, was injustice.

As a child, he woke up on Christmas morning with the urgent expectancy of every other boy expecting a new potions set or a puppy. (Draco never had a puppy. If he had, he would have named it Buck, after Jack London's character in The Call of the Wild. He did, however, have several cats, none of which seemed the least bit interested in him.) The stone stairs would sting his feet as he raced down them with a pure delight only possessed by innocence. The tree that greeted him in the hall was enormous, probably magically enlarged, though Lucius never said. It was his secret; he would hoist Draco onto his lap and whisper in his ear of how he entered the giant's forest and chopped it down just for him, how the spirit of the tree had told him that Draco had been an outstanding boy this year and deserved every gift imaginable. Draco would laugh and squeal in his father's arms and eventually Lucius would release him to fervently tear open the gifts.

In later years, Lucius grew less tolerant of Draco's seasonal anticipation. He thought it had something to do with the escalating situation with the Dark Lord. When Draco was nine, there were fewer gifts; a boy his age didn't need as many to be happy, and Lucius told him to "open them with haste, for we ought not waste time on such matters." Draco understood this in the only way a child _can_ understand: with obedience and respect. He didn't question his father, and he really never would.

Then one Christmas it stopped. Draco was fifteen. The tree, the gifts, the wreaths, even the green and silver decorations were forgotten. Lucius was too involved with Voldemort to bother with such a silly thing as Christmas. That was how Draco was first introduced to the war, to evil, and as trivial an affair a missed holiday may seem compared to famine and genocide and dark marks, it was how Draco interpreted the wrath of the Dark Lord. The war took his father away. The war made his mother cry. The war made the people he was close to distant and hard to reach. And all for what? So everybody could be the same? It was imperialistic, and it was arrogant to believe that they were better, that they, of all people, knew what was right. And the more Draco learned, the more he realized people have been doing this for centuries. It made him sick.

Voldemort once said they were protecting wizards. They were _protecting_ them. To death eaters, Voldemort was _righteous._

That Christmas, the Christmas that would define all other Christmases in the future, Draco retreated to his room and locked the door. It had just begun to snow, and the flakes built upon his windowsill. The glass became clouded with frost so that Draco could barely discern the outlines of the steep hill that ran down to meet the black pavement, nor the lights that lined its path. They were impressions only, and nothing could uncloud them; it seemed like what he would see if he gazed into a crystal ball: foggy shapes, a winding road, and a never-ending snowfall.

He didn't know why the Order didn't appeal to him. He didn't agree with his father, of course, but an eleven year old has very little comprehension of true and false; more, he sees what those he respects see. So if Harry Potter were to ask him in third year, in fourth year, and probably through most of fifth year, what his views were, he would have vehemently defended his father, without knowing why. Did he hate Harry? Yes. But like everything else about him, it was an immature hate, driven by not his own beliefs but by the astounding esteem he held his father in. If he was honest with himself, Draco would say he missed Lucius. He missed the man he thought his father was.

Humans were supercilious, and he much preferred the wild.

- - -

At Draco's suggestion, they had cooked more fish and buried them under the snow inside their shelter. The wall was rebuilt, and they packed the spaces between the wood with snow so no errant wind could pass through.

"Eleven years of my life without magic. I never thought I'd be here again," Harry had commented darkly. Draco had admitted to an annoyance at a wandless life, but he didn't feel the absence of magic. Magic was something inside of him, something he'd always known the feel of. Magic sparked through his fingertips, through his skin and bones, and while the conveniences of quick spells were longed for, he never went without the strong sense of wizardry that was an integral part of him.

"I don't know why you didn't just run away," Draco said.

Harry sighed. "I had nowhere to go."

"You're always somewhere."

"For a prat, you're awfully philosophical, Draco."

"For a Gryffindor, you lack balls, Harry."

A bright glint entered Harry's eyes. "Wisdom and strength are not opposites."

They were inside the cabin, the fire separating them, its smoke lured outside through a small hole in the roof. The flames licked at the ceiling and crackled, bouncing off the walls and dancing in jade eyes.

"I remember running away as a child," Draco began, moving a little closer to Harry and grinning from underneath a wall of silver hair. "I would pack a bag and hike into the forest behind our manor without telling my parents where I was. Of course, the house elves knew. I'm sure one even followed me, unbeknownst. But the point was that I felt isolated, important."

"Nothing much has changed," Harry observed.

Draco shrugged. "Here, I'm not important. Well, I never was to begin with. It's an illusion we're born with."

"You're humble."

"No. I just understand. I didn't before."

Harry looked uncomfortable. "When you say that you understand – that you understand that the world is so much bigger than you? You don't acknowledge it. You're pretty reckless for someone who understands the danger."

He smirked. "Maybe I want to be."

"Maybe you're too romantic," Harry retorted, but he was smiling, and it lit up his entire face. Draco grew restless. Harry was stirring something deep and searing inside of him and he needed to move about. He felt giddy and excited and terrified all at once; he felt like he was caught up in a fast-paced waltz, unable to break from the impossibly rapid steps, deliriously entwined in the music. He looked at Harry's face, at his pale, sinewy neck, and he was underwater, drowned by longing and incapable of reaching the surface.

"Let's walk," Draco proposed.

"Walk?"

"You know, that thing you do with your legs."

Harry scoffed. "It's getting dark out. We might not be able to trace our footprints back in the dead of night."

Night was hardly dead. "I'm going. I could freeze or get lost or eaten. If you want that on your conscious, fine. See you later, Potter."

The air was dry. The sun had faded from the horizon but still a tinge of light remained in the sky, like someone had doused a fire and the embers still glowed, faintly, somewhere unfeasibly far away. Draco didn't have to wait long before he heard the light crunch of snow behind him and then, unexpectedly, by his side.

He didn't know where he was going, and they walked a while in silence, allowing the trees to thin out before them. It was impeccably clear, and the half-moon hovered on the eastern horizon, bathing the field of snow in blue light. Barely a breeze stirred. The world was a snapshot, a moment frozen in time, pristine and seemingly unmoving. It was almost as if it was waiting for something, as if the stars were conspiring in hushed, unheard tones above their heads.

Draco stopped. He turned to Harry, whose face was tranquil but whose eyes burned. He looked at Draco, _through_ Draco, and his pulse quickened under the gaze. He was searching for something. Then Harry swallowed thickly, his eyes darkened so they were bruises in his skull, and he sank into the snow.

Draco's stomach churned and he gingerly sat himself beside Harry, watching him peer into the sky as he had the day they arrived. Had it been a week? A month? A year? _Two single nights?_

He balanced precariously on the edge of sanity as he waited for Harry to speak. His blood was acid in his veins and it hurt to breathe, but he couldn't turn away, couldn't close his eyes. Nothing penetrated the silence; nothing could, until Harry lifted his eyes once more to Draco's, and they stared at each other. Draco was about to break; he had broken, hours ago, when he held Harry from the cold. But there was still something between them, a wall as cold as a glacier and as undefined as the sky. Draco wanted to crack that. He wondered if they even could.

Then, Harry spoke. "I want to hate you." His voice was strong and definite and Draco couldn't look away. He was balancing on the river bank again, and one movement would send him straight into the icy waters. "You don't think it's going to be easy, do you?" Harry asked.

Draco's brows furrowed. "Harry –"

But Harry had broken his gaze and was staring into the distance. "You seem to forget that we're enemies. For a while yesterday, I did too. But you don't want to forget that, do you?"

"I –"

"Because we're not friends. We never will be. I don't want you to think that just because you're the only other person here that that changes anything between us. The first day, I told you not to talk to me, not to even acknowledge me. So don't."

Draco gulped down the acrid flavor in the back of his throat. "Then why did you follow me?" The other boy paled and bit his lip. Harry was nervous now, terrified; it was the same expression Draco wore when Harry turned his wand on him. "What are you so afraid of? Look around you! Nobody is here. They can't see us. If we get back to Hogwarts, you can return to your role as Boy Hero and never think of me again – but not yet." Draco laughed a sharp, bitter laugh. "Stop pretending that you have something to live up to. You don't. You can't do anything here but survive. Why do I scare you? Is it because I left Hogwarts so easily behind? Is it because I'm in lo –"

"It's because I _can't_ hate you, Draco!" he whispered fiercely. His sentence resonated through the air and slapped Draco's frozen cheeks.

Draco chuckled slightly in dark amusement. It was the only way to release the tension that was spilling over. It was choked and exasperated, and Harry glared at him furiously. "What do you really want?" He became cross, but before his could speak, Draco cut him off. "Not when you get back to Hogwarts. I'm not talking about that. I'm talking about right now, here, this instant. Because that's all there is. So answer me: what do you want?"

The world held its breath for them.

There was a crackle in the sky and a stream of color ripped through the stars. Both Harry and Draco whipped their heads towards the bright bands of light. Red, green, yellow – they waved in the sky like iridescent curtains. There was the faintest sound of rustling, as if someone was stepping on dead leaves in the distance. The color materialized out of nowhere and was the most amazing thing Draco had ever seen, the most magical sensation he'd ever experienced. The colors were ethereal. They were conjured from the bowels of the sky and shot across the clearing, illuminating _everything. _It was the bright, crackling hand of God brushing over the land. It was the vibrant, multihued flag of the arctic waving a rich salute. It was the stunning breath of space and space beyond; it was a glimpse into another world. It was breathtaking.

Draco felt something soft on his shoulder, and he tore his gaze away from the northern lights, the aurora. Harry rested his hand on Draco and was watching him like it was all that mattered. The lights slashed through Draco's insides; a bright, caustic feeling gripped his throat and chest. Suddenly, there was nothing keeping him from Harry.

Harry was serious and exposed. The cold evaporated; they were overcome by an indescribable warmth. He stared at Draco for the longest time. Draco tilted his head closer to Harry's. The aurora danced wildly in his eyes and the lenses of his glasses; Draco watched it, and he watched Harry, who gasped ever so faintly, a look of unguarded fear – and ecstasy – painting his features.

Draco didn't close his eyes when their lips met, wet with saliva and hot, so hot. He let them flutter open as Harry relaxed under his open mouth, their tongues brushing lightly. Harry tasted of new snow and something like cinnamon.

Draco's gloved hand rested on Harry's thigh and he scooted in closer. It was euphoria. He was kissing Harry and something inside of him flared and burned, and he didn't think of anything else except that, and how it felt. How Harry felt. His lips were full and trembling and the inside of his mouth was sweet and warm and wet, and his tongue was soft. His cheeks flushed and they both gasped for air, rushing back to each other because the cold stung them. The kiss was fumbling and sloppy and far from graceful, but it was severe; the kiss was Harry, and it was perfect.

The aurora waved its banner and eventually rose back into the heavens, but Harry and Draco, alone with the stars, were unstoppable.

* * *

**Thank you, reviewers, especially Miss Lesley, who took the time to give survival suggestions I desperately needed. I'm pretty much writing blindly here; I don't know a great deal about wilderness. (Obviously.) Oh, and anybody who relates a certain part of this chapter to modern politics gets a cookie. Extra points if you can find the quote from the DNC!**


	6. Beast of Pride

**Disclaimer:** J.K. Rowling owns Harry Potter.

**It's all moving too fast. Gak. I can't get my pacing back. Sorry. Anyway, in this chapter, I rediscovered the semi-colon; I found great joy in using it.**

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Chapter Six: _Beast of Pride_

"This feels unreal. How can it be true? I've always wanted my reality to be sharp to the point where it hurt. This – this is so cloudy, like I'm dreaming. I know why, though. It's because I have to push everything away. I have to push away Hogwarts and my friends and Voldemort just so I can look into your eyes without hating you. I still do; part of me does, at least. I hate how you were so smug and condemning and so intolerant. I hate how you make me want to stay here, because I can't, and I hate myself for wanting to. And I hate that this has to end. But then, doesn't everything?"

The fire flared high. Draco and Harry lay between their cloaks, their leather boots and gloves thrown to the side and random pieces of clothing drying by the fire. They had stayed out too long, and they were soaked with melted snow when they returned. The fire was warm, though, and so was Harry. Draco had never imagined a body could emit so much heat. It was strange, laying with him and not feeling the cold; it was strange to be so close.

Draco was half-asleep, entwined with Harry, their chests pressed together. Harry's breath stirred a strand of Draco's hair as he spoke. He was whispering lightly, just talking. Draco watched his mouth. Occasionally Harry would lick his lips, and Draco would have to kiss them. Once Harry was absorbed in a memory, his teeth biting the soft skin, and Draco kissed him hard, breaking the concentration. Sometimes Harry would smile; Draco would kiss him then, too.

"People say that love conquers everything. That's not true. It just makes you forget. It makes you forget every bad thing that's ever happened; it makes you forget to breathe." Harry sighed. Draco kissed him lightly on the base of his neck. A faint flush of red crept up to his cheeks. "I'm glad I'm not alone," he whispered, grinning.

Draco thought Harry had an aversion to being alone. He didn't blame him, of course. If Draco had spent the first ten years of his life in a cupboard, he'd probably want to be around people as much as possible. He'd probably be afraid of the dark, too. But Draco had been surrounded by souls, good and evil, strong and weak, forever. He welcomed the change.

Draco was very tired. He drifted somewhere between dreams and reality. "...and that's when I knew that I would never be the same, when...." Harry's voice was drifting about the bright strands of light that laced around his closed eyes. Draco, fighting insincerely to stay awake, thought he was on top of a mountain. He thought he could see Harry standing very far below him – and Dumbledore, too. He kept getting higher and higher until they were merely spots on the landscape, which was beautiful. "I think I'm very tired, Draco," Harry muttered, and Draco just waved at him from his position in the astoundingly blue sky. "I think I'm going to fall asleep."

- - -

Draco didn't open his eyes when he first awoke. He was afraid that if he did, the previous night would vanish in a breath of wood smoke. The aurora still burned brightly in his mind; he could still taste Harry on his tongue. It was glorious and fragile and he didn't want to do anything to shatter the image – not even lift an eyelid. He breathed in Harry, the chilled scent of his robes and the musty odor of sweat. His arms slunk around Harry's waist, around the bare skin of his back and into part of his shirt. The green cloak was covering them, so it still remained dark. And it was the first time in days that he'd woken up warm.

Finally, silver eyes peaked from light lashes. He wasn't prepared for what he saw, and the acidic emotion bit his gut. Harry was so peaceful, so gorgeous. His dark hair fell in his face, his glasses were tossed to the side, and his skin was damp with a light layer of moisture. Draco touched his cheek, grazed his finger down to the tender spot at the base of his neck where he could feel his heart beat.

Harry opened his eyes. It was surprising, because they were immediately aware of everything. He awoke so abruptly, like he was instantly prepared to face the world and whatever it may bring. Green eyes darted around Draco's face, which remained frozen. He feared the other boy would not remember, that he would be disgusted with Draco and push him away.

Then Harry smiled, and Draco forgot his fear. Harry wasn't embarrassed anymore; all traces of shame or anger had evaporated. They might return; in time, Harry might remember why he hated Draco, but Draco couldn't imagine that happening anytime soon. It was all too perfect to be spoiled, too new to fade.

A feral light caught Draco's eyes and he kissed Harry wetly on the mouth. "Good morning," he whispered huskily. Draco was automatic. When he looked at Harry, he didn't think about anything; he simply existed in the visceral heat of lust. His hands moved to Harry's hips and in a swift movement he glided on top of him, his mouth driving with pressure on Harry's own. Harry's fingers amused the groove in Draco's lower back and he panted roughly for air only when he absolutely needed it. Draco wanted to drown him. He wanted to be drowned. He excitedly, and with the deepest craving, thrust his pelvis into Harry's thigh. Harry gasped, which only made Draco kiss him harder, stifling him. He didn't notice the threatened, now punctured movements of Harry's scrambling hands. Draco didn't want to talk or stop. That wasn't part of it. He urgently needed Harry, and he smothered Harry with his violent lips.

Draco's hand ventured further down Harry's stomach, passing over his navel and slipping into his pants. Harry was tight and scorching, and feeling that made Draco moan deep in his throat.

A strangled cry flew from Harry's mouth and he forcibly raised Draco off him. They were both panting ruggedly, and Harry was frightened. He bit his lip and dropped his head to the side, avoiding Draco's glance.

"What?" Draco barked, perhaps too harshly. He was strained and doing everything he could to keep from attacking Harry with more brutal kisses.

Harry shut his eyes. "What are we doing?"

Draco grunted loudly, exasperatedly. He flung himself away from Harry and slipped on his gloves and boots and cloak and dashed out through the opening, away from the shelter and the person inside it, wild with frustration and desire and confusion. The cloak whipped around him like an avenging phantom and made his fury all the more evident.

"What the fuck is the matter with him?" he shouted to the trees. "Why the _fuck_ doesn't he understand? What is he playing at? And why is he so goddamned _afraid?_"

Draco shook with the effort it took to keep everything inside him. In an instant he hated Harry and loved him, loathed the idea of climbing back into the wooden shelter yet couldn't wait to return, wished Harry would come after him and explain and, at the same time, wished never to see him again. Harry was so...so _human._ He was everything Draco despised, and everything he adored about the race. He was a sweet smile, a soft voice, and he made Draco tremble with a burning, consuming ache. But he was also fickle and frightened and ungrateful and oh, God, Draco couldn't think about anything else. He was still strained against restricting fabric, his blood still pumped rigorously through his veins, and he could still feel Harry in his mouth and in his gut, a permanent and everlasting stitch.

It took him moments of stomping, farther and farther from the camp, to finally feel the cold. And when he did, it bit him hard; it was ruthless and gnawed with an insistency worse than Harry. There _were_ some things more powerful lust. The wild was one of them.

He trained his eyes to fix on the mountain in the distance, tried to breathe cold air into the pain in his chest. He was bewildered by his own emotions. Why should Harry, suddenly changing his mind as Draco knew would happen eventually, disturb him so much? He didn't know – he was beginning to believe he never would.

He was climbing hills now. He didn't know where he was going; he didn't care. He walked for so long he thought his legs would give out from under him and his cloak was nothing more than a paper bag against the frigidity of the air. He wanted to make himself feel everything, though, every discomfort. He wanted the natural, bitter irritation to drive Harry from his mind. He watched the weak sun filter through the canopy of evergreens and the eagles soaring in the sky above him. He heard the swift current of the river and a deep rumbling from far off that he couldn't place; it came from the mountains. He slowed his pace and stood still, serene, shutting his eyes and imagining that he was part of everything, that Draco Malfoy didn't exist, that the only matter of real importance, the only reality, was this: the perpetual snow and ice and the unyielding mountains that rose sharply into the atmosphere. He looked up.

Pale blue eyes like circles of glacier were angled towards him. Thick fur, yellow teeth, the ears lain flat against his head, growling from low in his throat. One paw was raised in preparation. Draco couldn't look away. He remained frozen with undiluted fear. His heart raced; he was aware of that, his swift breathing, and of his life, which seemed to have fallen onto the snow in front of him, completely at the clemency of the beast.

Blood danced in his vision. He could see one immediate future: himself as dog food. He thought about never seeing the stars again. He thought about the aura of warmth around a fire and the crackling of wet wood. He thought about hunger, the sun, the snow, the feeling of cloth against his skin, and the strong flow of magic in his veins. He thought of all the paths there were to travel in the world, how all of that was so profoundly significant, and how intimate he felt with it. Last of all, he thought about Harry. Harry would be alone; he would be more at risk without Draco. It was his life, too. It was all worth protecting – except Draco couldn't. As much as he could realize the importance of life, he could do nothing to save his own.

Sweat broke out on his forehead. His entire line of sight was consumed by the wolf's eyes, powerful and forbidding. The woods were mute, or Draco was deaf to their sounds. He kept hearing the music of winds echoing on stone, through cracks and crevices in a rock face, charming his ascent to an unknown place. He saw an animal, posed for attack, but all he could hear was an unidentified chord, low and harmonious and singing of nature itself.

The wolf lowered his head as if bowing to Draco. The blue eyes loosened their grip on him, and he took a step back, then another, never turning fully around. With each tentative step he felt like he was being given a new gift, like the animal was slowly letting him go and soon he would be entirely free.

Free. It was something Draco had forgotten about. He was so bound by Harry that he lost sight of freedom. That was what he wanted, wasn't it?

He marched back to the camp, contemplating freedom. He was so withdrawn. His steps were weak; he was content so simply _be._ He knew he had been granted something wonderful, something that he might understand in time or might never. Why was he alive? It was an exchange. The wolf knew to let Draco go, and he'd taken something of Draco with him. Those severe eyes held Draco's unspoken promise in them.

He paused outside the shelter. Inside, he could hear the fire eating away at the logs, and Harry's indistinct humming. Ducking down, he entered.

Harry's head whipped up when he saw him. His face was apologetic and concerned. "You've been gone for hours," he observed faintly.

"Hours? There's no clock," Draco replied fluidly, dropping to the floor and biting into a strip of fish.

"I thought you were in danger."

Draco lifted his head and smiled, but when he caught Harry's eyes the grin transformed into a frown. The air sparked between them. Harry was agitated.

"You frighten me, Draco. You're the only person that has ever made me afraid."

"More than Voldemort?"

"I hate Voldemort. I'm not afraid of him."

"You hate me," Draco said with a tinge of anguish.

"Yes...." Harry bit down on his lip. It didn't matter what Draco had resolved to feel when he next saw him; now, Draco wanted to kiss Harry. He wasn't in control of anything, least of all himself.

"Why did you push me away?" Draco asked bluntly. There was a silent space between their words.

"I didn't know how far you would go. I was fine with kissing you, and holding you. I could justify that. We were cold, and – and, well, it was just kissing." Harry spoke as if his lines were scripted. Draco believed he'd rehearsed this speech. "I know that's stupid. I know what I feel isn't 'just' anything. It's...it's _you._ Everything else I've ever done has been okay because it was the right thing to do. This, though.... I don't know what it is. It's hard to breathe around you, Draco; it's hard to speak. I thought that if we went any further – and you, you were moving so fast – I didn't think I could ever go back to who I was before we came here."

Draco watched him evenly. "No, you can't. Already you can't go back. You have to deal with it."

Harry's face lit up, first with anger and then with acceptance. Draco knew he'd been fighting this for a while, and a conclusion had just been made. "Come here," he said hesitantly. "I'm cold."

Draco crawled over and lay down next to Harry. Harry sighed against his cheeks and kissed him wetly on the mouth. "This is okay," he whispered, wrapping one arm around Draco's waist and placing his other hand on Draco's chest. And so Draco was given another gift. "You weren't really in any danger, were you?" Harry asked. Draco pressed himself closer and nestled his head into the nook of Harry's neck.

Harry's hands tickled their way down Draco's stomach. Draco gasped softly. Harry, who laughed lightly into Draco's hair, teasingly murmured, "This time, I promise not to stop."

That would be impossible, Draco thought. Nothing in nature ever did.


	7. Exhales

**Disclaimer:** J.K. Rowling owns Harry Potter.

* * *

Chapter Seven: _Exhales_

Delirium.

That was what it was: foggy, blind, scorching delirium that broke through every bond. Draco's lips were red as blood and throbbed incessantly. Harry was on top of him, kissing him so hard he left bruises. Their clothes were drenched in sweat, and the heat penetrated Draco's vision. He saw the thick dark hair and pale skin through a rippling sheen, like the surface of sand in the desert when the sun beats down on it. And Harry shimmered above him, a green-eyed oasis.

"I want more," Draco whispered, pushing Harry's sweater up and kissing all over his chest and stomach.

"Then take it. Take whatever you want. I don't care anymore."

Draco pulled off Harry's shirt, parting from his skin for a painful instant. Returning, he pressed his mouth against Harry's neck and tasted the skin there. It was warm and somehow like charcoal and fresh ice. It was intoxicating. Draco drank in Harry's flavor like thick amaretto, and it drove him insane. Harry's thigh was digging sweetly into Draco's pelvis and he arched into that burning contact. Every inch of his body seemed to be saturated in liquid fire, met even more harshly with Harry's mouth, which was locked to Draco's own and imbibed him, sucked out his soul like a banshee in a fairy story. Draco gave it freely to Harry; what use had he of a soul?

Harry tugged off Draco's sweater and discarded it. His hands roamed everywhere, delighting their way around Draco's back and chest and memorizing his muscles and the fine dusting of hair that began at his navel and traveled down his trousers. A feral moan escaped Draco's mouth and he nipped Harry's lips and then down his jaw, leaving fading bite marks on his sweltering skin. Draco's head swam; he was only half aware of everything that was happening, trapped somewhere between a slick tongue and ecstasy. He was alive, vibrant; his flesh captivated the essence of the aurora itself and wove through Harry, through his lanky limbs and strong hands.

"You know I won't be able to end this once we've started?" Draco asked, his breath catching in his throat.

"Shut up, Draco." Harry forced his mouth back on Draco's lips and devoured him for all he was worth. It was raw. It was primal. It was lawless, fierce, like the fire that crackled beside them. It had everything to do with the instant and nothing to do with consequences or the future. This time, Draco gave himself up to Harry, whose fingers worked at the strings on his pants and pulled them mercilessly off. They were breaking every rule. Draco didn't even think there _were_ rules anymore.

He clawed at Harry's sides and shoulder and back, his nails leaving long red streaks along the colorless flesh. Draco didn't notice when Harry's pants had come off; his just noticed that there was no barrier between them, no piece of cloth, just sticky flesh. Harry was so close to Draco that he felt he'd crawled inside of him. Their hearts beat rapidly – _their_ hearts, because Draco couldn't tell which was Harry's and which was his own. He wasn't aware of anything outside the chaotic blend of pleasure and agonizing craving.

I didn't matter that neither of them knew what to do. An invisible force guided them, guided Harry's mouth down to the taste the dip in Draco's hips, guided Draco's hands to curl in Harry's hair and around his jaw. Draco was blind and he only experienced the world in vivid spasms of desire. His eyes were shut and Harry engulfed him, and there was nothing but bliss, so hot it was painful. Draco thrust into Harry's mouth. Warmth coursed through his body; his face became flushed with it, and his eyes watered. The sultry atmosphere and the prickles of heat that broke out all over his skin made him shiver and writhe and Harry never stopped, just kept going, and Draco thought he would die because it was so intense. He arched his back and released a low growl. He could feel the enormous pressure build and build until it consumed him, and just when Draco thought he couldn't handle it anymore –

It was a moment of rapture. There was a deep pulling from his lower abdomen, a forceful heaviness, and then Harry crawled back on top of him so their faces were aligned. Draco's eyes were still shut and he shuddered, his mouth parted and his breath coming raggedly. Harry just kissed him. He kissed him softly, gently, almost as if Draco now was fragile. Or like Harry was trying to mend something, like he'd shattered Draco. He had.

His hands were light like feather brushes against Draco's cheeks. Draco lazily let his lids flutter open.

Blue eyes, like glaciers. Just for an instant, but lucid. Clear. Real. Then they were green again, and smiling. "You promised."

"What?" Draco huffed, too oblivious to be alarmed.

"I said, 'I promised.' I promised not to stop," Harry whispered.

Draco held Harry to him tightly. "I know. I know," he murmured indistinctly, uncomprehending and feeling inebriated. Harry lay his head on Draco's chest, their legs twined together. Draco wrapped his arms around him and forever they stayed like that. He wasn't asleep; he wasn't even tired, but he wasn't entirely awake, either. He was somewhere outside himself, somewhere lovely and incoherent and simple, somewhere where he could see the blue hue of dawn chasing back the planets. He felt expectant, but calm. He felt that all he had to do was be ready for what was ahead.

Harry whispered tentatively in his ear. It was strange that he should be so cautious now, when he was only speaking. "When we get back to Hogwarts, this will end, won't it."

Draco kissed Harry's head. "I don't know, Harry." He didn't tell him that he didn't think they would ever get home. He didn't tell Harry, who was wrapped around him and breathing so peacefully, that they might die in the arctic.

"I think that's okay. At least – at least it's like this now."

Draco hugged him more tightly. The wind was whistling outside and the fire consisted of faint embers and the occasional flame that flickered from the ash, flailing wildly for one last moment before it fell back to the burnt wood.

At some point, Draco fell asleep, and in sleeping, he dreamt. It was the first dream he'd had in years, and it clung to him like cellophane. He was hiking up a steep, icy, jagged mountain. He did not follow any path, but he wasn't afraid. He was cold, though; he was cold and lonely and suffering from a vague ache. Colors waved in the sky. Draco knew he had to reach them. He knew he would, in time; he knew that eventually he would be part of them. He stopped, exhausted, and crouched into a crevice in the rock. Closing his eyes, he could still see the colors. They were even more vivid. He could still see everything: the sharp grey of the mountain, the white caps of snow in the distance, even the stars beyond the aurora. They seemed to be drawing nearer. Harry's face flew briefly across his vision, but just as quickly it was gone, and then, all he saw was darkness.

* * *

**Sorry this is so short, but it just worked out that way. I wish I were in control of my stories, but apparently I'm not....**


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